He is wearing post-shower trackies, because naturally one could die of frostbite with all heaters running full tilt, and as you all know, he refuses to wear his bathrobe. Due to its immense weight and size, his bathrobe hangs from a sturdy hook on the back of the study door where, according to HH, it is undoubtedly riddled with spiders. Hey, I dust occasionally, and I’m fairly certain there is no cause for him to get all arachnophobic over his robe, but there you have it. And dying of frostbite is patently impossible since our home on any given day is roughly the temperature of your average pizza oven.
He casts a doleful glance in my direction, clearly saddened by the fact I am curled up like a cat on the sofa cushions watching the news. I smile over the rim of my cup. “You alright, babe?”
He groans and flings himself across the sofa, landing with his head in my lap and narrowly avoiding a facefull of tea. He covers his face with his arm, as maudlin as any silent movie star. “Why?” he asks, “Why do I have to go to work?”
“Poor baby,” I say, stroking his hair.
“Why can’t they just keep making direct deposits into my account and leave me alone?”
“I know. It’s just so unfair that work has to get in the way of your REAL life…”
He is quiet for a minute. Then, out of nowhere he says, “I need a clone to send to work.”
“I’ll get the box, you get the magic marker. We can set it up right here in the living room…”
“That sounds perfect,” he says, snuggling deeper into my fluffy pink robe. “It would be so easy,” he says. “All I’d have to do is teach him not to talk to anybody and to eat his lunch at his desk…no one would know the difference.”
I chuckle and carry on stroking his hair, knowing full well that if there were two of him, the sofa would be mighty crowded this morning.
Poor HH… sometimes life is just so unfair.
- feature photo: Shutterstock
- calvin & hobbes 1: evilgeek.com
- calvin & hobbes 2: teamliquid.net
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